Feel
by elementarywatson
Summary: John was starting to feel things for Sherlock. He wasn't sure, however, that Sherlock was even able to feel anything at all.
1. Chapter 1: The Beginning

Title: Feel

Chapter 1 : The Beginning

AN: So, this just happened. Been filling my empty days with Sherlock fanfic, and before I knew it, I had opened up a word document and started typing. Not _much_ of a plot in this first chapter, but it gives you an insight into my Dr Watson's mind.

I (sadly) don't own these characters – credit goes to Conan Doyle and Gatiss and Moffat etc for that one. I make no money from this, nor anything else in particular, so please don't sue me for using them to while away the hours.

Chapter 1 : The Beginning.

**John POV**

That was when he first began thinking – the first day of the Baskerville case. Sherlock had disappeared out of his sight, and John was left – as usual – to sort out their lodgings alone.

"Sorry we couldn't get a double for you boys" the barman had said, and an image had flashed into John's mind before he could help it. _He was entwined with Sherlock – tangled together as close as they could get even though the bed on which they were laying was humongous. Sherlock's pale skin glowed in the moonlight streaming through the window – John could tell from the sheet wrapped messily around their hips that they were both at least topless. They weren't doing anything in particular, but the scene still struck John as spectacularly intimate. They were facing each other on their sides, John wrapped tightly in the taller frame of Sherlock, who had his arms enclosing him, his chin resting on the top of John's head, his one hand resting on one of John's shoulder blades while the other made light patterns on his back with his long, nimble fingers._

John shook himself out of his _weird, unexpected, what the hell, John, Surprisingly hot _dream _no, fantasy_. He looked up at the barman, a small frown crossing his face. "we're not-" _a couple_ he meant to say, but cut himself off before he could finish the sentence. No, they may not be a couple, but with the image his mind just conjured up, he couldn't force the words past his lips. Instead, he just shook his head, picked up his pint and made his way outside to Sherlock.

The sun was shining down on the table where Sherlock had chosen to sit, filtering through the curls resting on his forehead and causing him to squint slightly. John paused, taking a sip out of his glass, as he noticed how the squinting caused Sherlock's cheekbones to protrude even more than was usual. Irene Adler was right – you really could cut yourself on Sherlock's bone structure.

Ever since that day, John had been having thoughts and feelings about Sherlock pop up at the most inopportune moments. A grin over the top of a coffee mug after a smug comment became a grin for a multitude of other – not so innocent – reasons. Small flashes of teeth and hair and skin drove John wild – the fantasies had become much more explicit than the first one at Baskerville.

The touches were the worst. John would be checking his emails, updating the blog, something nondescript and day to day, and Sherlock would come up behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other curling around a mug, and make a comment, or simply scoff. He would lean forward while doing it, and his breath would ghost along John's ear. There were times when he'd get so close that a dark curl would fall from his forehead and brush along John's temple. The thermostat in the flat had been raised by a couple of degrees over the past week – Sherlock had at least pretended to believe John's lies about coming down with a cold – he had to explain away the shivers that were bought on by Sherlock's mere presence somehow.

He had thought it was a good plan at first, but the raise in temperature in the middle of August had led to one unexpected result – Sherlock's increased leeway with his clothing. Whereas before, the dressing gown was always accompanies by a pair of formal trousers and a nicely ironed, if slightly tight, as John had been noticing with a higher level of appreciation these days, shirt, these days he was lucky – or unlucky, depending on which way John chose to view the direction his mind was going in these days – if Sherlock had anything at all besides a pair of boxers on under the gown.

He _had_ to know. There was no way that Sherlock could tell what Lestrade had spoken to his mother about the previous day as soon as he saw him and yet not know that John, for the past two weeks, had been increasingly fascinated, and infatuated, by the taller man.

There were times when he was sure that Sherlock _did_ know. Every so often, when John would give a particularly violent shiver at one of Sherlock's sarcastic comments whispered directly into his ear, Sherlock would linger before pulling away. John knew that if he could only see the look on Sherlock's face in moments like this that he could get even a glimpse at an idea how Sherlock felt, being that close to John, hand curling softly over his shoulder, cheeks almost touching.

And then there were the other times, when Sherlock would emerge from his room in his robe and a pair of trousers, and John would get distracted, staring at the long pale neck and the _where the hell did that come from, he just sits on the sofa all day_ slim, toned muscles of his chest and stomach, and John was sure he could see the barest hint of a smirk on Sherlock's _full, beautiful_ lips. He just _had_ to know. How could he not know that all John wanted to do was pull him in close, thread his fingers through those dark, shining locks and meet Sherlock's lips with his own. He wanted to know if that cupid's bow tasted as delicious as it looked. He wanted to know what it would take to stop that magnificent brain of his to stop working if for just a split second. He wanted to know what Sherlock would look like in the throes of passion, wanted to taste that neck as it was tipped back, fingers scrabbling to hold on to something, anything to stop himself from falling over that edge.

Shit, now he was hard. Something had to change.

So there is the first chapter. Not the longest, but it's just the beginning. Bear with me, the next one should be out soon.


	2. Chapter 2: Scent

**Title: Feel**

**Chapter 2: Scent**

AN: SO, here's chapter 2. Thanks all for reading, and hope you enjoy this one too. It's a Sherlock POV, there probably won't be many of these.

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Sherlock Holmes et al belong to Conan Doyle and Gatiss, Moffat etc at the BBC. I'm just borrowing them for a short while.

Chapter 2: Scent

**Sherlock POV**

"The Y Files" Sherlock read aloud over John's shoulder, grasping it gently with his right hand as his left curled around a steaming mug of coffee. John was writing up the latest case and as always Sherlock was reading over his shoulder. He noticed a slight shake to John's right hand resting on the keyboard and moved closer to observe in more detail. Yes, there was a definite tremble in the index through ring fingers on his right hand – normally the steady one. As Sherlock leaned over his shoulder he also noticed a sharp intake of breath and a slight flush to the skin just under his left eye. Symptoms – was John coming down with something more serious than the cold he's had coming on for the past couple of days? It was already getting to be too warm in the flat – the thermostat had been turned up a little while ago even though it was rapidly approaching late August.

Sherlock took a deep breath and got as far as "Are you alr-" before he noticed the smell of John's neck just millimetres away from his nose. It shouldn't have been anything spectacular, just the smell of the simple soap he still uses – a habit left over from his military days, loose leaf tea and mint shampoo. But it was. Underneath was the scent of something that was purely John, something earthy and thick, something that Sherlock just wanted to bury himself in and never leave. He smelled of warmth and home, and Sherlock hated himself for those thoughts because they didn't make any sense, but still, all he could think was warm and home and dear lord, he wanted to wrap himself up in John, just like he does his coat, and never leave.

Sherlock pulled back sharply, rushing around to the overstuffed armchair and throwing himself down, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin, his eyes falling closed.

"Sherlock?" he heard, and opened his eyes to see John looking at him, those big blue eyes round with concern. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock's eyes fell shut again, and he mumbled "just thinking, John" as a reply just to put John off. Though it was the truth, he just couldn't let John know what he was thinking about. He couldn't tell him the truth, or even an abridged version. Not this time.

_He very much liked the way that John Watson smelled. _

Thinking in italics now, Sherlock? He mocked himself, but he couldn't quite get past that one salient piece of information. Yes, he did very much like the way that Doctor John Watson smelled, but it was more than that. He could pass by anything or anyone in the street and notice their scent, think it pleasant, but he wouldn't be inclined in the slightest to follow them for a while, to surround himself in their scent, let it envelop him.

His eyes were still closed, but his thoughts, his senses were full of John. He could hear him shifting slightly on the sofa, could hear his fingers tapping against the keys on his laptop as he typed. He could still smell him too, the scent not nearly as strong as when their skin was almost touching, but now he had been awoken to it the smell clung to him, seeped into his very pores, made him feel _alive_ for once.

He was terrified.

The next morning, Sherlock was still in the same position in the armchair when John came down for a cup of tea and breakfast. He could feel John's eyes on him as he filled the kettle, but he couldn't look up at him.

"Been down here all night, Sherlock?" John asked, putting two mugs down on the counter in front of him, the sound finally causing Sherlock's eyes to open and focus on the doctor.

"Mmm" Sherlock replied noncommittally, hating the ache in the back of his thighs when he placed his feet back on the floor after twelve and a half hours in the same position. If inly his transport wouldn't let him down on such a regular basis. His mind needed to work, he couldn't be distracted by stupid body issues like all of the normal, idiotic, stupid beings on this planet.

"What have you been thinking about?" he heard John ask over the sound of the kettle boiling. He watched avidly as John gripped the handle of the kettle and poured water into the two mugs in front of him, grabbing a teaspoon and stirring, the clinking of the metal against ceramic jolting him from his thoughts.

"Experiment. Pollen. Eyes" he spoke quickly, getting distracted once more as John stretched into the open fridge to grab milk, bypassing the glass jar full of human eyes and the clingfilm wrapped spleen on the same shelf.

"Sounds exciting" John replied, his voice flat.

"Thanks" Sherlock mutters as John put down a mug of tea in front of him – strong, dash of milk, two sugars, just as he likes it – with a clink, not missing the surprised look John shoots at him in reply to the thankyou.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say he doesn't quite know what – and isn't that a turn up for the books – when his phone beeps on the side table. He reaches out to pick it up, unlocking it as he brings it toward himself.

"Lestrade" he says, reading the short but simple text shown on the screen.

_Crime scene._

_Chalk Farm Tube Station._

_Now_

_Lestrade_

"Let me shower quickly." The voice came from John on the sofa, and Sherlock looked up to see him swigging down his cup of tea, easily drinking half in one go, judging by the volume of the mug and the length of John's gulps. He took a big bite of his toast, the crumbs raining down onto the tshirt he wore for bed, some of them falling to the floor to rest near his bare feet.

"Yes" Sherlock spoke, unaware it was even him making the noise. He stared, transfixed, as John finished his toast and tea before standing quickly, making his way to the stairs. Only when John completely disappeared from view did Sherlock spring to his feet, the slight twinge still present in the backs of his thighs making him give a wince as he shot to his room, flinging the doors to his wardrobe open. He grabbed a suit and shirt – black and the purple silk one he favoured – and changed quickly before heading back out to wait for John on the sofa. He heard the door to the bathroom open and footsteps pad across the hallway to John's room and he headed up the stairs to brush his teeth. He made his way back down to the sofa and sat, drinking his tea as he waited for John. The drink was nearing cold by now, but that didn't matter to Sherlock. It was the taste of it he liked, it didn't matter to him the temperature. He was swilling the dregs in the bottom of the mug, watching the swirling patterns the leaves that had escaped from the bag made, almost like cigarette smoke, when John made his way down the stairs, pulling on a light beige sweater and somehow managing not to trip.

Sherlock stood, pulling on his coat and wrapping a dark grey scarf around his neck. "Ready?" he asked, holding open the door for John to pass.

"For anything" the doctor replied, and Sherlock refused to take that as anything more than was meant.

Absolutely refused.

So, there you go. Chapter 2. Next chapter probably wont be up as quick, I'm thinking a week or so between.

Tarrah.


	3. Chapter 3: Touch

**Title: Feel**

**Chapter 3: Touch**

AN: Chapter 3 is here. It's another John POV, which I must confess I find much easier to write. I get the feeling that John is a person who discovers things as he goes along, one thought merging into the next in a way that doesn't always flow, so that's how I've tied to write it. And no, that's not just an excuse . I wasn't a big fan of the second chapter, so here's hoping that 3 is much better.

It took me ages to write, mainly because I got a new job, so I've been out and about lots. Very sorry for the wait.

* * *

**Feel**

**Chapter 3 : Touch**

**John POV**

John could probably say that the skin on his left shoulder, the one that was almost obliterated in Afghanistan, was the most sensitive part of his body. He could feel touch there much more strongly than in his right shoulder, for example. That was why he felt it profoundly whenever Sherlock would rest a hand on his left shoulder to look at the screen on John's computer, or when Sherlock's bicep would brush against his as they walked. Or at least that's what John tried to tell himself. He refused to acknowledge the fact that although the skin on his left shoulder was more sensitive, that was no reason for Sherlock's touch anywhere on his body – and that was a thought to be finished later, much later, when he was alone – to be more intense, more _pleasurable_ than say, the feel of Sarah's fingertips brushing against his own as she handed him a set of patient notes at the surgery.

John was jolted out of his thoughts by Sherlock's shout of "Taxi!" and the almost immediate arrival of a black cab on Baker Street. John was still astounded by the ease at which Sherlock could summon a taxi – if it was down to him they would still be standing there for a good few minutes yet. John got into the cab after Sherlock, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Chalk Lane tube station, please" he addressed the driver when it became clear that Sherlock was settling in for a silent taxi ride.

"Righto, sir" the cabbie replied, pulling away from the kerb and turning in the small street in one swift move. John shifted slightly in his seat and the skin of his thigh burned, even through his trousers, as it brushed against Sherlock's own, solid, warm, thigh for the briefest of moments. As John settled, he moved slightly away from Sherlock but the heat persisted, settling in his stomach and he just _knew_ he was blushing.

He turned his face to the widow, hoping to hide this fact from Sherlock under the pretense of looking out of the window, but knew he had been caught as soon as Sherlock's steepled fingers separated, each hand coming to rest on it's corresponding thigh. Damn it, he should have moved his head slower.

"You're blushing" he heard, though Sherlock spoke it quietly, and John didn't move, hoping he could use the excuse he couldn't hear the words over the traffic. His eyes stayed staring resolutely out of the window of the cab, watching the sights of Marylebone pass them by, though he could tell that the blush on his cheeks got worse at the words, spreading down to his neck.

"Don't ignore me, John. You're blushing" he heard this time, and the volume of Sherlock's words held no option for John – unless he claimed sudden deafness, he had no choice but to admit that he heard them.

"Yes" he replied, hoping that settling on a short, to the point answer would somehow provide him with a way of not participating in the conversation that, knowing Sherlock as well as he did, would take place just because Sherlock wanted it to. John refused to admire Sherlock's tenacity in this, writing it off as sheer stubborn mindedness in an effort to create more personality traits in Sherlock he could most definitely put in the 'con' column of his list – a list he wasn't aware his own mind had been compiling up until that point.

"Why? There's nothing about this situation that would provide a reason for embarrassment. There's no way it can be physical attraction – we stepped out of the flat and straight into this cab, and the street was deserted, as a matter of fact, most of the streets have been so, and we have passed nobosy who fits the stereotype of socially acceptable and attractive, so unless you wish to profess something to me or to our cab driver here, our options are ou – oh" John had turned to face Sherlock without meaning to at some point during his stupid, _alarmingly accurate_, speech, and Sherlock tailed off when he looked John in the eyes. There was nothing John could do, he was locked in that gaze – so much so he didn't even flinch when Sherlock moved, reaching out tentatively and grasping John's wrist, caressing the soft skin on the underside with his long, delicate fingers.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and John knew he was taking his pulse. He had seen him do this very same thing to Irene Adler, seen him lean in to assess as her pupils widened from the mere prescence of Sherlock Holmes, and so he knew that he had about two seconds before Sherlock would come to the final and unerring conclusion that John was attracted to him. And damn him if he wasn't right. John knew that his pulse had quickened at Sherlock's touch, he could feel it throbbing in his stomach and thighs and all the places in between. John knew that his pupils were blown wide with lust – how could they not be, with Sherlock leaning in towards him, still rubbing the skin of his wrist with a pressure halfway in between firm and gentle, _the perfect pressure_, John's mind supplied unhelpfully. And John knew that his breathing had become rapid, could feel it drying out his lips no matter how many times he licked them to introduce new moisture to the skin.

And if John knew this, then Sherlock most definitely did.

"You _do_ wish to profess something to me, don't you John?" Sherlock asked, breaking through John's thoughts of doom and gloom and everything that could - and would- go wrong in the immediate aftermath of Sherlock's discovery. His eyes never left Sherlock's - he was mesmerised by the swirling blues and greys he saw there, and he managed to allow himself only the tiniest flicker of hope when the pupils began to overtake the sea of colour.

Sherlock's eyes were beautiful, yes, but there was something much more stunning about visible evidence of the man he wanted above all others wanting him back.

The sweeping motion of a thumb across the skin of his wrist brought John's attention down to where Sherlock had maneuvered their hands into a tight grasp, and he smiled at the sight. Sherlock's hand was surprisingly soft, considering the amount of chemicals he worked with, and there was only the barest hint of callouses on the pads of his fingers from his violin strings, but John could appreciate the slight friction they would cause if he could ever somehow convince Sherlock to touch him in a way past this.

"Yes" John replied, and the sound of his own voice startled him. This was it, two words in the back of a taxi were more than was necessary for Sherlock to figure out the entire history of John's love for him. He stared down at his right hand clasped in Sherlock's left, their fingers entwined, until a hand on his jaw forced his gaze to two pools of black surrounded by the smallest rings of blue grey.

"I must admit that I am in complete and utter concurrence" spoke Sherlock in his baritone voice, which sounded to John as if it had somehow managed to drop a whole octave, and that deep rumbling sound rattled around in John's chest cavity until it grabbed a hold of his heart and forced his blood to pound around in his veins at an unmatched speed. He could feel his lips tug up into a small smile, and the soft pad of Sherlock's right thumb rubbed slightly at the indent below his bottom lip, ripping a gasp from his mouth.

And then there was nothing but a rush of blood in his ears and the feel of Sherlock's soft lips toughing gently to his own, the sound of a moan from an undisclosed party and, as Sherlock tugged open John's jaw with the thumb still placed on his chin, the utterly brilliant touch of Sherlock's tongue to his own.

* * *

There are two more chapters (probably) after this one now.,

Again, so sorry it took so long. Hope you enjoy the chapter, let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4: Taste

Yeah, so I know this one has taken ages as well, and I can only put it down to the fact that I have never been as busy as I have for the past couple of months. The run up to Christmas is the busiest season of the year for classical musicians, and it doesn't seem like I've stopped, so, needless to say, when I've had a night to myself, I've spent it sleeping or in front of the telly instead of writing.

But now, I have a week or so off, just got out of hospital for foot surgery, so I'm at home resting.

Um, this is basically porn. I would apologise, but no.

Enjoy.

Feel Chapter 3

The case at Chalk Farm tube station was solved quickly – one look at the hanging body and Sherlock told Lestrade exactly where the suspect worked and a brief description of the man. So that's how, ten minutes after arriving at the station, they are in another taxi heading back to Baker Street.

And Sherlock's hand is on John's thigh.

Hand. Thigh.

John's mind has to go over that a few times, because he can probably count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Sherlock willingly touch anyone, and yet here he is, in the back of a taxi, with his palm resting on the top of John's thigh, his long fingers curving inwards to brush against the seam on the inside.

And it's fucking fantastic.

John's mind hardly registers Sherlock reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, taking out his wallet and paying the cabbie, only really noticing the tightening of those lean fingers around his leg before Sherlock leans over him and pushes open the door of the taxi. John blinks and coughs before leaving the cab, stumbling slightly on his trip to the front door. Sherlock has the door open by the time John manages not to trip over the kerb, and the door is pushed shut behind him as soon as he is inside. John only just has time to exhale sharply before he is rammed up against chipped black paint, Sherlock's sharp pelvis jabbing into his slightly softer than he would have liked stomach.

"Wha-?" he starts to ask, but is cut off by that ever so beautiful, soft, fucking fantastic mouth on his once more.

John spends about two whole seconds wondering at the fact that the adjective soft can be applied to the same mouth that effectively cuts people to shreds on a daily basis, but, really, is there any other way to describe that sweeping, sucking thing Sherlock is currently doing? And then John's brain decides to turn off, because Sherlock's tongue has just made its debut into this conversation. It's tentative at first, and then, simultaneously, Sherlock sweeps his tongue into John's mouth, flicking the tip over his own and pushes one long fingered hand into the slightly longer strands of dusty blonde hair at the crown of John's head and tugs.

And that was not a whine. John will concede a moan, because yes, moaning is something that men do, but men definitely do not whine.

"Upstairs" Sherlock breathes onto John's lips when they part for air seconds later; hearing the unmistakable sounds of Mrs Hudson moving around in her quarters, and John reluctantly opened his eyes, putting space between himself and the detective.

"Oh God, yes" is John's only reply when he sees Sherlock's reddened mouth and blown eyes, moving past him to make his way up the stairs first, feeling the heat of the other man following him only a few inches behind.

This time, it is John who presses Sherlock up against the chipped black paint of 221B as soon as the door has shut behind them, and his hands immediately fly upwards, one delving into those curls he has been obsessed with for weeks while the other curls around the collar of that ridiculous coat, pulling him down to meet his mouth. Their tongues meet immediately, no hesitation this time, and they both groan in appreciation. Sherlock's long fingers come up to the lapels of John's jacket, pushing it from his shoulders, and neither of them care that it lands on the floor, or that it gets trampled on as they start to make their way to the sofa, all that matters is that there is one less layer of clothing between them.

Sherlock shrugs off his own coat when John finally releases his grip on the tweed, pushing the doctor down to sit on the sofa before straddling his lap, one knee on either side of him.

"What are we doing, Sh'lock?" John mumbles between kisses, sliding his hands between Jacket and shirt, catching the finely tailored wool as it fell from the even more finely tailored body (if he does say so) beneath it and tossing it over the arm of the sofa furthest away from them.

" I thought that would be kind of obvious, John" the detective replies, raining kisses down the throat of the doctor beneath him, pulling at the neck of his wheat coloured cable knit jumper when it threatens to impede his path to John's clavicles. He skims his hands down to the bottom hem of John's jumper, pulling it up, smiling at the whine John gives when he catches his nipples with his fingernails on the way past. As soon as the jumper is free of John's body, he scoots forward on John's lap, pressing them together from lips to crotch, enjoying the groan it rips from John's lips and throat.

"I didn't think you would want-"John starts to explain, only to press his lips back to Sherlock's roughly, dipping his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, situating them below the fabric of his silk blend shirt and rubbing maddening circles onto protruding hipbones, sweeping in every now and again to meet in the centre of a surprisingly toned stomach.

"Oh, I don't think I've ever wanted anything more" Sherlock murmurs in reply against John's lips, rocking his pelvis forward as if to prove a point, pressing his aching erection into that of his doctor's.

"Oh, fuck Sherlock. Get these fucking clothes off, now. I need to see you. Fuck" John swore, already fumbling with the bottom buttons on Sherlock's shirt as the detective worked on the ones at his throat, swearing himself when his trembling fingers – arousal and adrenaline – made the normally short task that much harder to accomplish. He inhaled sharply when their knuckles brushed together as they were each on their last button.

"Fuck, Sherlock, you're absolutely gorgeous" John mumbled out when the shirt was finally removed, before he leaned forward and placed a kiss to the mole on his neck. Sherlock groaned, tossing his head back to allow the other man more access, bringing his hands forward to grip onto the shoulders of his John for balance. John continued along Sherlock's neck, sucking on the tendons, paying particular attention to the point where neck met shoulder.

"F-fu-fuuuck" Sherlock breathed out when John moved upwards, sucking at the spot just behind his left ear before nipping at the lobe lightly, pulling at the flesh with his teeth before soothing the red marks with his tongue. Sherlock bucked his hips forward involuntarily, slotting his hard cock alongside the impressive feel of John's, and his shaking hands fell down to hold at the doctor's hips as he bent his head and scraped his teeth lightly along Sherlock's clavicle, his eyelashes fluttering against the detectives skin as he watched the reactions he was causing. "You're killing me here, John" he mumbled, running his thumbs along the skin just inside John's waistband before resting them on the button of his jeans. He simultaneously slipped the button through the buttonhole in the denim and sucked at the soft skin just underneath the corner of the doctor's jaw harshly after just a moment's hesitation, adding a swirl of tongue, making John slam his eyes shut and press his head back against the sofa, exposing the underneath of his jaw to more of Sherlock's ministrations.

"Jesus shit, Sherlock. That fucking mouth of yours is magical" he whimpered, bringing up a shaky hand to weave fingers through the curls on the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock's tongue on his neck had distracted John from his zipper being pulled down, but nothing in the known world could distract him from the feeling of Sherlock's fingers curling into both sides of his waistband at his hips and divesting him of his jeans and boxers in one go.

_No, _Sherlock thought before taking him in hand at the base, _if anything was magical, it was John's cock._

He was slightly thicker and longer than the national average, and absolutely, completely, stunning. And Sherlock wanted to lick him. So he did. His knees had barely hit the floor in front of John before he had licked one long stripe from base to tip, humming slightly at the taste surrounding the head.

"Shit, Sherlock" John moaned again, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hair and tugging slightly to get the detective to look up at him. He did so, sticking out his tongue so that the movement of his head caused him to lick another stripe upwards, flattening his tongue over the slit at the tip and looking up at John through his eyelashes. He met John's eyes, blinking leisurely, and felt a shot of pride and arousal run through him at the look of him, red faced, pupils blown wide with lust, knuckles clenching rhythmically in Sherlock's hair. The feel of his fingernails occasionally grazing his scalp soon had Sherlock moaning around the head of John's cock where he had taken it into his mouth and started sucking lightly. "Shit, shit, shit" John mumbled, tugging harder on Sherlock's hair, and he took the hint, releasing John from his mouth with a slight pop and sliding back up to straddle his lap once more, where John immediately caught Sherlock's mouth with his own, hands falling to the belt around Sherlock's hips which was constricting his by now rather painful erection.

The feel of John's hands flickering across his stomach as he undid the belt buckle and popped open the button on the top of Sherlock's trousers was divine, truly divine. Too light a touch to truly please, but in no way was the sensation a tickle. Sherlock loved John's hands, the complete juxtaposition of them. He loved that they could just as easily handle a Sig as they could a fine needle and thread. He loved that they were always warm, and always ready to care. The softness of his doctor's hands had surprised Sherlock the first time that he had stitched up an open wound on his calf, but now, now the softness of John's hands as he dipped them inside Sherlock's trousers to grasp his aching cock was absolutely stunning.

Sherlock slid forward on John's legs and brought them hip to hip, and this time, the feel of their cocks lining up next to each other was perfect. Sherlock had never expected to ever feel like this, like the bottom was falling out of his brain, but here he was, canting his hips up against John's and sliding their cocks together within his firm grasp. The sensation was quickly overwhelming, and it was only a couple of minutes before they were panting into each other's mouths more than actually kissing, whines coming from both of their throats.

"John" Sherlock whimpered, "John, it's – it's –" his head fell forward onto John's collarbone, and the feel of hot breath as Sherlock panted against the sensitive skin there quickly overtook John.

"Shh, it's alright. Me too." John moaned, placing a kiss to the top of his head, tangling his free hand in the hairs at the nape of Sherlock's neck and pressing a fingertip into the hollow under the occipital bone. Sherlock went boneless against him, and merely the sight of the detective's climax sent John over the edge too, cum flowing out onto his already soaked hands. He panted in exertion, resting his head on top of Sherlock's to try and get his breath back.

It was a good few minutes before either of them moved much more than breathing, and however much John didn't want to interrupt Sherlock's nuzzling of his neck, he was feeling the distinct need to wash his hands and remove his clothes.

"Come on, Sherlock, we need to move" he said, nudging him in the forehead with his chin, and Sherlock looked up at John with wide eyes and red cheeks.

"Where? Why"

"Bed. Come on, we can cuddle and chat there."

The detective nodded, moving back from John and grimacing at the tacky feel of his stomach. "Bathroom first?" he asked, standing and holding out a hand for John. When the doctor nodded, he started off towards the bathroom, pulling John along by their joined hands. Once inside, they quickly shucked what was left of their clothes and Sherlock grabbed a flannel, running it under the hot tap before wiping down John's stomach and hands, followed by his own.

"Enough" he said, flinging the soiled cloth at the sink. "Bed now."

John smiled, taking his outstretched hand and following Sherlock to his bedroom, standing awkwardly in the doorway as he watched the other man pull down the covers on his bed and slide himself inside. The room was dark, Sherlock had his blinds drawn, and only faint beams of light allowed John to see Sherlock settling himself under the duvet before turning to see John still stood in the entrance to the room with a puzzled frown.

"Why aren't you here?" he asked, patting the sheet in invitation, and John smiled, making his way across the room to situate himself next to Sherlock, who immediately curled around him, tucking his face into the side of John's neck, resting his chin on the bullet wound scar. "Better" he stated in his rumbling voice, flinging an arm across his chest and a leg over his hips.

John hummed in reply, and his fingers once again found the hollow just under Sherlock's occipital bone. He applied slight pressure, smiling to himself as the detective relaxed completely, placing a kiss on John's clavicle. "Sleep, Sherlock, I'll be here when you wake up." He mumbled, feeling himself drifting off. The last thing he heard before sleep took him was a mumble from the detective, something along the lines of 'like you, John.'

So yeah, there it is. Sorry again it took so long, life is a bitch at the mo.


	5. Chapter 5: The End

Feel.

Chapter 5.

* * *

Hi guys.

So, yes, I started typing this as soon as I posted the previous chapter, which is why it's only taken me a few weeks, not a few months to get it out to you.

* * *

Waking up next to Sherlock was John's favourite part of the day. On the rare occasion that Sherlock considered before 1am a suitable bedtime, if he went to bed at all, that is, they would curl up next to each other in the detective's bed, smothered in the darkness of London. Five days out of seven, however, John would make his way up to his own room by himself at around 11.30 pm and fall into restless sleep there. There had not been a morning, however, in the three weeks since the Chalk Farm case, that he did not wake with Sherlock wrapped around him like an overgrown teddy bear. For all that Sherlock kept to himself during waking hours, he was remarkably clingy in his sleep. He would use John as a full body pillow, resting his head on his chest rather than a pillow, and curling arms and legs around the rest of him.

Now that the British Army was no longer dictating when John got out of bed in the morning, it was a guilty pleasure of his to see how long past 6.30 am he could keep Sherlock relaxed and in bed in the morning. Sherlock is beautiful in the early hours, with the soft beams of sunlight filtering through the gaps in John's curtains highlighting his zygomatic arches and the hollows of his closed eyes. His eyelashes are longer than any John has ever seen on a man, and they rest against the pale skin of his cheeks as he dreams. The fluttering of said lashes makes John aware of the fact that Sherlock is waking, and a groan comes from his beautiful, full lips.

"Stop staring" the detective mumbles, nudging John's collarbone with his chin and tightening the arm draped over his chest, never once opening those startling eyes of his.

"You're too lovely not to stare at" John replies, dipping his head to drop a kiss against Sherlock's brow, tangling his fingers into his wildly curly hair. John loved Sherlock's hair in the morning, his movement in his sleep was a failsafe way of messing up the curls to such an extent that they became almost untameable and very, very thick. One of John's new favourite things to do was to lie just like this, Sherlock's face pillowed on his chest, with his hands in his morning bed head, simply taking his time working out the tangles with his fingertips. It was a sure fire way to keep Sherlock in bed for an extra hour, too, so that was a bonus.

John smiled at Sherlock's sleepy face and brought up his other hand so that both were on the detective's head, rubbing gently at his skull.

"Hmmm" came the assent from Sherlock, and John grinned in triumph before strengthening his movements and starting the untangling at the place where Sherlock's forehead became his hair.

All in all, John managed to stretch it out to about 45 minutes, and by the time he finally removed his hands from Sherlock's hair and rested them on his shoulder blades, the detective was almost asleep again. John smiled again and closed his own eyes, it was Sunday morning after all, and he may as well catch another hour or so of sleep himself while he had the chance and Sherlock was quiet.

"You're lovely too, you know."

John nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard this a minute or so later. He opened his eyes and tilted his neck down to see Sherlock staring at him, those strange blue – green – grey eyes boring into him.

"Hmmm?" he asked, lifting a hand to run a thumb over the line of Sherlock's cheekbone. The detective blinked up at him, smiling lazily as John's thumb moved to graze over his eyebrow before coming to rest again just under his eye. Sherlock moved his own hand up to wrap around the back of John's neck, thumb flickering over his adams apple and the hollow at the bottom of his throat before stopping at the crest of his chin.

"I said, you're quite lovely too, you know." Sherlock answered, and John could feel the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiled widely at Sherlock's words. It was even more endearing when he thought about how much Sherlock hated repeating himself in any way. In his view, if you couldn't be bothered to listen the first time he said something, then you weren't worth him repeating it. John dipped his head, pulling Sherlock up for a short kiss.

"Morning, Sherlock" he spoke against his lips, just resting there for some time.

"Morning, John."

"Sleep well?"

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to speak when the chime of his phone sounded from his trousers, neatly folded on the chair in John's bedroom. He closed his mouth, nodded and pecked John on the lips before rising from John's bed, making his way over to his clothes and taking his phone from his pocket.

"Lestrade. Needs us to give statements." Sherlock stated, retaking his place in John's bed, phone in hand. He curled up against John, draping himself across his chest and typing out a reply one handed. "I told him we'd be there in an hour or so."

"An hour?"

"I thought we could shower first"

* * *

New Scotland Yard was bustling with energy when they walked through the doors at just past 9am, bypassing the reception desk and heading straight to the wall of lifts. Sherlock pressed the call button and almost immediately the doors in front of them opened smoothly. John rolled his eyes as he followed Sherlock inside. First taxi's, now lifts. Was anything not under Sherlock's command? They alighted on the sixth floor and turned left, making their way through the maze of corridors to Lestrade's office. Sherlock didn't even bother knocking, just barged in as if he owned the place when they reached the right door.

"You wanted to see us" he stated, taking a seat in front of Lestrade's desk. John stood behind Sherlock's chair, arms crossed and rolling his eyes at Sherlock's behaviour.

"Sherlock, John" the Detective Inspector nodded to them, adding. "Do come in won't you, make yourselves comfy."

John laughed at Lestrade's sarcasm, but Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, tapping his fingertips impatiently on the edge of the desk.

The statement giving was boring, as usual, and soon, they were back in the lift and heading down to the ground floor. Sherlock crowded into John as the lift filled up in front of them, slipping his hand into John's jacket pocket. John looked over at Sherlock and saw him, head bowed, looking away, slightly unsure of himself, and moved his own hand into his pocket, gripping Sherlock's tightly.

"Hey" John spoke when the lift had cleared out on the second floor and they had started moving again, tipping Sherlock's head to meet his own and pecking him on the lips.

"Hey" The detective replied, smiling lightly and pulling John down for another quick kiss just as the lift doors dinged open.

"Home?" John asked, leading Sherlock out of the lift and toward the main doors of New Scotland Yard. "We can watch that new Jonathan Creek and you can figure out how it was done in the first few minutes and tease me about it. You know how you love that."

"Sounds lovely"

* * *

So yes, I do imagine Sherlock and John curled up on the settee together and watching detective shows.

So that's it, it's over. It was never meant to be a big thing, just a small exploration.

Thanks for reading, folks.


End file.
